


The Young of the Species

by Elenothar



Series: Roar 'verse [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Magical Creatures, temporary adoption of a wampus kitten, wampus!Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 00:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: In which Newt is incapable of going anywhere without stumbling over poachers and a tiny wampus steals Percival's heart.





	The Young of the Species

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jenniewrennie13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenniewrennie13/gifts).



> This load of small wampus-shaped fluff is dedicated to jenniewrennie13, for being a lovely person and supporting a good cause. Hope you enjoy what I came up with!

*

Much to the surprise of everyone he works with, Percival had submitted a form asking for two weeks’ worth of vacation days a few days ago. Seraphina had squinted at him suspiciously, because the workaholic Director of Magical Security _asking_ for time off rather than having it be forced on him by her or injury is nigh unheard of, but signed off on it with all due haste nonetheless, probably worried he’d change his mind if she took too long.

Percival, who is not above some petty amusement now and then, had only smiled at her thinly, keeping said amusement carefully internal. She really should’ve known by now that Newt is a good influence on him.

His aurors’ reactions are equally diverting, comical looks of surprise alongside some badly hidden panic about the possibility of Bad Things Happening while he’s gone. Feeling rather more like a kindergarten teacher than a high-ranking government employee, Percival needs most of his last day at work to reassure them that no, he isn’t planning on getting himself kidnapped again and he has definitely not been brainwashed into going on holiday either (seriously Johnson, what the hell), and also here are my detailed notes on how to keep everything running smoothly and what needs doing while I’m gone. Then he more or less legs it out of the building while they’re distracted by the pile of parchment, just in case he’d never get to leave otherwise.

And all of this because Newt had turned his big, guileless eyes on him and said, “I was thinking about going to look for more wampuses. You should come with me this time, Percival.”

Percival has never been good at saying no to those eyes (for all that Newt usually _seems_ oblivious that he’s employing them), and to say that he isn’t curious about wampuses in the wild would be a lie.

Packing is somewhat superfluous for most wizards, but is even more so when one of the two people travelling has a magical suitcase that could fit a whole house, let a lone a few changes of clothing, so when Percival makes it back home, Newt is already waiting, all set to go.

“Just give me a moment to tend to the plants, love,” Percival says, greeting him with a lingering kiss. Checking over the plants in the living room, he asks, “So where exactly are we going?”

“Saskatchewan,” Newt says, that adorable hint of excitement colouring his voice that always accompanies another trip out to look for new creatures. “I’ve got a portkey to Saskatoon, and we can apparate into the forests from there.”

Percival grunts his acknowledgement, finishes tweaking the watering spell for the Silverweed and moves on to the plants in the bedroom. Time has passed since his imprisonment at Grindelwald’s hands, but he still always relaxes that little bit more when he steps into his bedroom with its enchanted ceiling, forest sounds and dimly glowing plants.

He may be nominally going on vacation, but given that he’s accompanying Newt, who wouldn’t know free time if it hit him over the head with a dragon scale (not that Percival is much better, but at least his main hobby isn’t also his life’s work), he expects he’s going to need that calm.

*

Not even two days later, Percival is hiding behind a large tree with the occasionally infuriating love of his life, not even ten metres away from what looks to be some kind of smuggler camp. A handful of cages are set up off to one side. Most of them are empty, but one houses a little ball of black fur that looks familiar in a way he really doesn’t want to examine too closely.

Next to him Newt is near-vibrating with silent rage.

This is so not Percival’s jurisdiction. They’re in _Canada_ for Jackson’s sake and the Canadian aurors have already been eyeing them warily ever since the whole Grindelwald debacle, not that Percival can blame them. Except he already knows that Newt isn’t going to care one whit about Percival’s jurisdictional issues.

“Newt,” he hisses, “when you said ‘rumours of wampuses in the area’, did you actually mean wampus _poachers_?”

“Well,” Newt starts, in a tone that he clearly thinks is eminently reasonable. Newt is, in fact, a very reasonable person, Percival has found, _unless_ something involves creatures in any way, shape or form, at which point he turns into the most stubborn, argumentative brick wall Percival has ever encountered. “There aren’t a lot of wizards out here, so when there _are_ rumours there’s usually a reason for it.”

Percival gives in to the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “And why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“Because you’d just have fussed at me,” Newt says and smiles. “This way was much more expedient. Now, are you coming to help me arrest those poachers or not?”

“Expedient, my ass,” Percival grumbles, but follows him anyway, just as Newt knew he would.

The poachers may have prepared for a dangerous magical creature, but they had not, apparently, expected wizards to intervene. Or at least not wizards of the calibre of an enraged Newt Scamander and his boyfriend, the Director of Magical Security at MACUSA.

Percival might’ve felt sorry for them, if he hadn’t seen the look on Newt’s face whenever his gaze drifts over to the caged wampus pup. And really, he’s entirely on the same page here – somewhere in the back of his mind his own wampus form _roars_ at this affront to nature.

The fight lasts all of two minutes and ends with four securely-bound wizard poachers. Two are unconscious and a third one violently purple (Percival takes care of the fourth one’s swearing with a conjured gag), but none are missing limbs or the ability to breathe, so Percival counts it as a win.

He considers the issue of what to do with them for a moment, then picks up a discarded blanket from the ground and murmurs, “Portus.”

Digging up a piece of parchment and a pen from the depths of his coat, he writes out a quick note to the Canadian auror office, officially declaring the bastards to be their problem, and sends the whole lot to the doorstep of the Canadian wizard government in Ottawa.

Finally alone, he turns to look for Newt, finding him crouched in front of the occupied cage, murmuring soothingly.

The little wampus is alternating between growling as threateningly as it can (not very) and shrinking back against the bars of the cage. It’s a horrible sight to see and before Percival’s conscious thought processes have come to a conclusion, he has changed, landing softly on six paws.

The pup stops whining.

Percival pads forward, takes the lock off with one swipe of his front paw and hooks on claw delicately around one of the front bars of the cage to open it. He has never been in a situation like this, but when he’s transformed into a wampus, part of him _is_ a wampus, so he follows his instincts and plops down onto the ground, face nearly on the same level as the pup, starting up a deep, rumbling purr.

It takes a few minutes of lying on the grass, Newt quietly keeping his distance, before the little wampus starts to creep forward until finally, a little wet nose touches Percival’s much bigger one, snuffling at the sensitive whiskers. He purrs louder. The pup totters another step forward and all but flings himself onto Percival’s front paws, whining and burrowing closer. Operating on instinct still, Percival starts licking the pup’s scruff, even as the human part of his mind goes _ick_.

Sensitive ears swivel as Newt scuffles around quietly in the background, until he hears the _click_ of the suitcase opening.

Gentle teeth close over the pup’s scruff, bearing it in the air as Percival rises. The pup hangs limp, trusting, probably used to the method of transportation. Percival steps forward and hops into the opening of the suitcase, landing in the wampus habitat that Newt still hasn’t got rid off even though he could use the space.

Percival trots over to what used to be his favourite space – a mossy hollow beneath the biggest tree in the habitat – and deposits the little wampus on the padded ground.

No sooner has he turned back to human shape, intending to go help Newt, than the pup starts whining again, high-pitched and distressed, nose wiggling desperately. The sound burrows right into Percival’s heart and he barely hesitates a second (Newt will surely shout if he needs him, yes?) before he turns back again, slumping to the ground so that the pup can nuzzle into his fur, content again. Percival has clearly been promoted to the little rascal’s very own safety blanket. He’s very glad none of his aurors, or magic forbid _Queenie,_ are here to witness him being a complete and utter push-over in the face of a small wiggly nose and wet eyes.

Fortunately Newt chooses that moment to approach, bowl and towel in hand, derailing Percival’s worries about future blackmail.

“I brought some milk,” Newt says quietly, kneeling down next to Percival. “Wampus milk would be ideal, of course, but I think this should do as a substitute.”

The wampus pup has calmed enough that it doesn’t put up a fuss at Newt’s nearness, just watches him a little warily from half behind Percival’s foreleg.

It takes long minutes of coaxing until the little wampus consents to suckling at the milk-sodden towel that Newt keeps dipping into the bowl, but once it’s finally distracted by the food, Percival takes his chance to turn back human for a while. The pup whines a little, ears moving anxiously, but maybe something of Percival’s scent does remain the same, for it settles down again this time.

Newt keeps going until the bowl is nearly empty, while Percival watches with by now familiar fondness. He can’t help it – Newt interacting with baby creatures would only leave a heart of stone untouched.

Sated and sleepy, the pup doesn’t react fast enough when Newt reaches out and yowls in distress at Newt picking up a hind leg to briefly check underneath, earning another soothing purr from Percival.

“It’s a girl,” Newt announces, beaming.

“Of course she is,” Percival agrees. “Pup here is going to be one fierce wampus when she grows up.”

Newt is watching him with an expression of blatantly fond amusement. “You do realise that

technically she would be a wampus _kitten_ , after wampus cats? Not a puppy?”

Twin looks of scorn are directed at him, Percival covering the pup’s ears.

“Don’t listen to him, Pup, you can be anything you want to be.”

Newt opens his mouth, perhaps to point out that it was Percival who started the whole puppy thing and not the little lady next to him, but in the end he just shakes his head, a smile playing about his lips. Percival and the newly-dubbed Pup are still mock-glaring at him.

“If I didn’t know better I’d wonder if you actually were her father.”

Percival’s mind shudders its way through that hypothetical and he almost asks if that’s even _possible_ before remembering just in time exactly who he’s talking to. Newt has never met a rhetorical creature-related question he hasn’t answered in grisly detail, and Percival really _doesn’t want to know anything about the intricacies of animagus sex_.

“Let’s not go there,” he says.

As if on cue, Pup opens her little mouth for a feline yawn, before snuggling back into the soft moss. Percival suspects that the expression on his face looks rather besotted, but when he looks at Newt he finds a serious expression on his love’s face that has him instinctively straightening his spine.

“What is it?” he asks, when Newt doesn’t immediately speak.

Newt shifts closer so he can lean against Percival’s side, one hand coming up to rest on the nape of Percival’s neck, carding gently through sensitive hairs.

“You know we can’t keep her.”

Percival lets out a deep breath, acknowledgement hovering in the silent stream of air. “I know,” he says. “You haven’t fallen down on your job of educating me. She belongs in the wild.”

Still there’s something careful about Newt’s tone of voice. “It’s harder when you get attached. So far you only truly bonded with the permanent residents in the case.”

“I know,” Percival repeats, turns his head to capture Newt’s lips in a soft kiss. He can think of no other way to convey _it’ll be all right_.

Thankfully, Newt seems to understand, as he usually does, his eyes brightening.

“We’ll start looking for her mother in the morning.”

At Percival’s nod, he shifts, using Percival’s shoulder to push himself upright. “Feeding rounds, then bed?”

Percival nods again, but as soon as he starts moving away, Pup lets out a whimper in her sleep, body wriggling towards his warmth. He hesitates.

Newt is watching his inner struggle, a fondly crooked smile on his lips. “I’ll be fine without you for a night. Keep her company.”

Percival gives in. He’s already attached either way, as they both know – a night spent cuddling with Pup isn’t going to make any difference there and she clearly derives comfort from his presence.

With a flick of his mind, he transforms into a wampus again, arranges his legs and tail to his satisfaction and drops into a doze to the sound of Pup’s contented snuffling.

*

Percival turns up the collar of his coat against the chilly wind. Pup is hiding behind his legs again, small tail twitching.

“So how do you find a wampus? A _specific_ wampus at that?”

“Hmm?” Newt mutters, abstracted, eyes sweeping over the forest around them. “Oh, well, usually I would start with tracking charms and the like, but I think this time we have an easier option.”

When he doesn’t say anything further, just looks at Percival expectantly, Percival sighs, gesturing towards his partner. “Newt, do we have to have the ‘I’m not telepathic and can’t actually read your mind’ discussion again?”

Expectancy turns to sheepishness, though not without Newt mumbling something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘it’s your own fault for usually anticipating so well’.

“In your wampus form you should be able to track other wampuses much better than a wizard can,” Newt explains once his flush has died down. “You’ll have access to the necessary instincts.”

Percival makes a dubious noise. “You know it doesn’t always work like that. It’s not exactly… conscious.”

Newt cocks his head, gives him a Look.

“Fine, fine,” Percival grumbles, already stepping forward to avoid squishing Pup when he transforms into a shape that takes up a lot more space. He snarls playfully at Newt, batting a paw in his direction in response to Newt’s general pushiness.

Pup mewls excitedly, scampering forwards to hover under Percival’s head – which is about the same size, if not a bit bigger than her entire body. He squints downward, snuffs in amusement and nudges her into place with his nose so he doesn’t have to go cross-eyed when he looks for her.

All right. What now? Come on, instincts.

In the silvery moonlight, fur lit up in a thousand places and sitting on his two sets of hindquarters, which just about makes him as tall as Newt, Percival would’ve looked intimidating – if it weren’t for the ball of fluff nestled between his forepaws, purring slightly, and Percival’s recurrent glances down, whiskers twitching.

Newt is busy charming safeguards in place for his ears.

Percival’s eyes narrow. Before he can think better of it, Percival throws back his head and _roars,_ louder than he ever has before. He can feel the magic in it prickle across his fur and roll and tumble around the trees, amplifying far beyond the sound’s natural reach. He wishes Newt could hear it, without it driving him mad.

As the last notes echo and die away, an answering roar rises up to reach his ears, so subtly different in nuance that he knows he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference in human form.

The world quiets, after. Absolute stillness follows the roar of an adult wampus in the wild, long long moments until even the rushing wind of rustling of leaves is audible again. The noises of wildlife all around take even longer to reappear, timid at first.

“Now we wait,” Newt murmurs after cancelling the charm protecting his ears, once the simple act of speaking feels less like a transgression against the silence.

They don’t have to wait long.

Movement between two trees at the other side of the small clearing catches Percival’s eye first, bringing with it the by now familiar scent of a large cat.

The wampus is as midnight black as Percival, but another few inches larger, with a feral golden gaze that would’ve made him wary under any other circumstance. As it is, Pup begins wriggling in excitement, taking a couple of steps forward before looking back at Percival. He rumbles a last purr at her and nudges her forward with his nose, watching as she scampers all the way over to the strange wampus, who immediately begins to lick her all over.

Once Pup is thoroughly disinfected, the grown wampus lifts her head, staring at both Newt and Percival. Newt’s eyes go wide as the wampus slowly, clearly inclines her head to them both.

Mother and daughter disappear back into the forest as silently as she came.

“Beautiful,” Newt finally whispers, a light in his eyes, and Percival, once again in human shape, can only agree.

He’s going to miss Pup, he knows, but she’d looked so right trotting along beside her mother that he doesn’t feel an ounce of regret. Having always wondered a little how Newt can stand putting so much effort into rescuing vulnerable creatures only to let them go once they have recovered, understanding finally unfurls.

Before they turn to leave he draws Newt close, just for a moment.

They don’t come across any other wampuses that trip, but neither of them mind overly much. Newt stumbles across a wild herd of unicorns and Percival meets a very haughty centaur, and they both find several rare plants to carefully take cuttings from.

All in all, Percival would deem it a successful vacation – not boring by any means, but fewer firefights and creature attacks than he’d quietly been expecting.

Then he figures out that Newt took a picture of him sleeping curled around Pup, right around the time that a _very fired_ Tina circulates a copy among the aurors, and decides he should never take a vacation ever again.

*


End file.
